


your ghost clings to my skin

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (And Only Sort of Gets Them), Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, But He DESERVES Them, Derek's Leather Jacket is Important, First Kiss, First Time, Fog, Ghost Sex, Head Injury, Hitchhiker Stiles Stilinski, Hurt/Comfort, I'm So Sorry Derek, M/M, Poor Derek, Poor Roscoe, Scent Marking, Urban Legends, derek deserves good things, last wishes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-01 21:38:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14529729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: It’s a thickly foggy night when Derek picks up a hitchhiker on the road out to his house in the preserve. Stiles is walking and cold, and thinks he might have crashed the Jeep, except he just doesn’t remember. All Stiles wants is to get warm, and Derek obliges.





	your ghost clings to my skin

**Author's Note:**

> This story is for prompt #274 (Foggy) at Fullmoon Ficlet. I must confess that this story is so very inspired by reading Sparrow Hill Road by Seanan McGuire and thinking about hitcher ghost urban legends and Rose Marshall.
> 
> PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS AND TAGS. I'm so sorry, but we've got everything from first kisses to MCD in less than 4k words...

The fog is thick, rolling in low to the ground. Even with his fog lights on, Derek has difficulty seeing through it much more than a half a car length. He goes slow through the preserve, wary of anything that might leap out in front of him, unseen until the moment that they appear in the road.

He stops twice for animals—once a pair of deer, their eyes glowing eerily in the fog, and once a bobcat that hisses and leaps away as soon as it catches his scent. He creeps onward after that, flicking the lights once to high beams only to switch them back again after reminding himself that they only reflect back from the fog and blind him.

There’s a shadow on the side of the dirt road. Derek swings left, making space, then slows when he realizes it’s a man trudging along, hands in his pockets, plaid shirt hanging loose. He presses the button to roll down the window, calls out, “Need a ride?”

The man stops, shoulders going stiff and straight as he turns. “Derek?”

“Stiles.” Derek exhales, throws the car into park. He reaches across to unlatch the door and nudge it open. “Get in. It’s not raining, but it’s too cold for this.”

“Yeah.” Stiles climbs in and sits on the seat, arms wrapped around his center as he shivers. “I’m kind of freezing.”

“Where’s your jacket?” Derek is already shrugging out of his leather jacket, handing it across to Stiles. “Did the Jeep break down and you forgot it when you started walking for help?”

Stiles gets his arms into the jacket, holds it tight across his front as he leans down, pressing his nose to the leather collar. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I guess. I don’t—I don’t really remember.”

Derek inhales slowly, tastes blood on the air. “Stiles—”

“I think I hit my head.” Stiles rubs at his forehead, just at the hairline, and his fingers come away red. “Oh. Yeah. I guess I did.”

“Seatbelt,” Derek directs as he throws the car into drive and waits for the click that says Stiles is safe. “Do you remember where you went off the road? We can go back for your Jeep—”

“No.” The one word is curt, short and sharp. Stiles shakes his head, rubs at his face. “No, seriously, it’s a mess out, Derek. I just want to go—I just want to go….”

“Were you heading home?” Derek doesn’t wait for an answer, starts crawling slowly down the road again. “My place is closer. We’ll call your dad from there.”

“Yeah, okay.” Stiles hunches down, closes his eyes.

“Don’t go to sleep,” Derek whispers. “If you hit your head, you’ve probably got a concussion. I’ll need to keep an eye on you tonight.”

Stiles licks his lips, laughs softly. “Sure, big guy, keep an eye on me tonight. I think I’ve had several fantasies that start off with that line.”

Derek wraps his fingers around the steering wheel, clutching it tightly. “Stiles, you’re rambling.”

“Maybe,” Stiles agrees. He tilts his head back, rotates his head to look in Derek’s direction. Derek can just see him out of the corner of his eye; he doesn’t dare take his eyes off the road. “It’s true, though. You, me… it’s all this huge fantasy. Because for one, you like girls. Homicidal maniacs, occasionally, although Braden was just y’know, death on two legs but she was at least on the side of good. The others, though. No, wait, Paige was nice. I’m really sorry that happened, by the way. You deserved better. You still do.”

“Better like what?” It’s easier to keep Stiles talking than it is to think about what he’s saying. At this pace, they’ve got another ten minutes before they reach Derek’s house.

“A better person,” Stiles emphasizes. “A good person. Like, you deserve the woman’s who’s going to love you for you. All of you, including the wolfy bits, and the part where you like to hang out with a bunch of teenagers sometimes, like our supernatural big brother.”

“Maybe there’s a guy out there who’d be good for me.” Derek’s claws tip his fingers, leaving tiny dashes in the leather-wrapped steering wheel.

Stiles snorts. “You don’t like guys.”

Silence.

“Wait, do you like guys?” Stiles whispers. “Because if you do, then you deserve a good woman or man. Whichever you fall for. Just, let yourself fall for one, dude. Let yourself go and believe that you get to catch the brass ring this time. You get to win.”

Derek nods slowly. “I like guys,” he says, and leaves it at that.

“Dude.” Stiles exhales on the word, stretching it out long and low. It’s almost a groan, and the sound does things to Derek that lead to his jeans getting tighter.

Derek has a feeling the night is going to be complicated and awkward.

“I know I’m not it, though,” Stiles murmurs, twisting his head to look out the window. Derek risks a glance, and sees Stiles’s reflection clearly, a drip of blood trailing over his forehead, falling against his eyebrow. “I mean, dude, I said find someone who’s good. I’m not good.”

“What makes you say that?” Derek asks. “The nogitsune? That wasn’t your fault.”

“I was there.” Stiles taps the side of his head. “I didn’t stop it.”

“It wasn’t you.”

“Fine,” Stiles snaps. “Then you’re not responsible for Paige’s death, either. You didn’t bite her. She made that choice all on her own, and it didn’t work. You helped her by easing her pain and misery.”

Derek slams on the brakes as another deer races in front of the car. They’re not far from home, but he’s beginning to think they’d get there faster on foot.

“How’s your head?” he asks.

Stiles shrugs one shoulder. “It’s okay. I don’t really feel it. I’m just cold.”

That could be shock setting in. “I’ll warm you up when we get home,” Derek offers.

“And that’s the start of another dozen fantasies,” Stiles murmurs.

Yeah. Derek can see how that could happen.

The fog eases when he pulls into the circular driveway in front of his rebuilt home, as if it can’t settle in the clearing around the house. Derek hops out of the car, and when Stiles still sits there, shivering, Derek goes to the passenger door and pulls it open. He holds out a hand, and Stiles takes it, using it as leverage to get out.

“You really are cold.” Derek doesn’t think about it, just pulls Stiles close and wraps his arms around him, burying his face against the side of his throat. He can taste the pulse there, leaping as Derek touches it with his lips.

“Keep doing that and I won’t be for long,” Stiles whispers, and the words sound like he means them as a joke, but there’s a plaintive note underneath.

“Let’s go inside,” Derek says. “I want to get you cleaned up. Then we’ll talk about exactly how I can keep you warm.”

“I might be hungry, too,” Stiles admits.

“We can fix that.”

He makes Stiles sit on one of the hard wooden chairs at the kitchen table. Stiles hunches in on himself, gripping the leather jacket and clinging to it, wrapped tight around him. In the harsh light, Stiles is pale, his lips bloodless. The blood from the wound stands out stark against his skin.

Derek brushes his hair back—it looks bad. “I don’t have anything really for this. We should probably get you to the hospital. The best I can do is the antibacterial gel and bandages Scott stored here for you.”

Stiles wraps his fingers around Derek’s wrist—still cold, pressed against Derek’s skin. “No hospital. I want to stay here, if that’s okay with you?”

“It’s okay with me,” Derek agrees quietly. “Let me just get you cleaned up.”

The bleeding stops as soon as Derek starts washing it gently. It’s still oozing, but not enough to account for how pale Stiles is. That, and the cold, worries Derek more than anything else. He carefully applies antibacterial gel to the injury on his head, then wraps it.

“Don’t mummify me,” Stiles says, cranky.

“I don’t want your brains falling out,” Derek retorts. “I happen to like them where they are.”

Stiles’s expression clouds. He reaches for Derek’s hand, brings it to his lips, and presses his mouth to the palm.

Oh.

Maybe they are going to cross that line.

“I like the rest of you, too,” Derek says quietly. “But whatever you’re thinking, I’m not sure it’s a great idea with a head injury. And if you’re in shock.”

Stiles tugs, and Derek grabs another chair so he can fall into it, sitting knees to knees with Stiles, facing him. Stiles grabs both Derek’s hands and kisses the fingertips before lowering them to rest on their knees. “If you knew you had one day to live, what would you want to do most?” he asks.

A chill slithers down Derek’s spine. “You’re not dying, Stiles.”

Stiles laughs at that, short and sharp. “You know what I’d do? I’d take a chance on the one thing I’d really regret never getting the chance at,” he says. “So maybe I’m feeling a little mortal tonight. Humor me, Derek. Please. If you have any actual interest in me—”

Derek cuts him off, leans forward to press his mouth to Stiles’s. “Is that enough of an answer?” he whispers against Stiles’s lips.

Stiles grips his head, pulls him closer and deepens the kiss. “Don’t stop talking,” he whispers. “Keep telling me. Warm me up.”

Derek can do that. Derek can shower Stiles with the kisses he never thought he’d get to give, the affection that he never thought would be his. Derek nuzzles in against his throat, growls softly when Stiles tilts his head back, baring his neck for him. Derek nips, and Stiles whines under his breath.

When Derek pushes his hands under the jacket, under the flannel beneath that, Stiles finally pulls back, grips his wrists, and stops him.

“Are you warm?” Derek asks, willing to stop if that’s what Stiles wants. He still feels cold to Derek’s touch, even through the shirt, but Derek’s always run warm. Maybe this is normal. Maybe he’s just never noticed before.

Stiles swallows hard, lets go of Derek. He gently touches his cheek. “Let’s go to your bedroom. I want all of you. In naked ways, if that’s what you want.”

Fuck.

“Yeah.”

Derek guides Stiles through the house, one hand at the center of his back, as if Stiles doesn’t already know the way to his room. As if Stiles hasn’t poked through every nook and cranny in this space, determined to saturate it with his scent and satiate his curiosity.

Although Derek knows now that there were some places Stiles left undisturbed, or else he would have known that girls weren’t Derek’s only option.

The bedroom is a mess—the bed rumpled and unmade, clothes thrown haphazardly wherever they landed when Derek stripped the night before. Stiles ignores it, backing away, a smirk lighting his lips.

“Get naked,” Stiles orders, and Derek hastens to comply.

He shoves down his jeans and boxer briefs in one go, having to pause partway through with his jeans awkwardly around his knees so he can get his shoes off. When he looks up, Stiles is standing there with shoes off and jeans still on, and a leather jacket over his bare torso.

It’s not how Derek imagined it, but it looks good. And it smells good—his leather against Stiles’s skin. It smells so good.

Derek licks his lips, and Stiles smiles. “I was just cold,” Stiles says, “but if the jacket’s turning you on that much, I’m definitely keeping it on.”

“Keep it on,” Derek agrees. “But you need to get rid of the jeans.” He strips his own shirt off, tangled briefly in the arms, and when he escapes, Stiles is naked except for the leather jacket.

The room is filled with the scent of leather and their combined arousal. It’s absolutely perfect.

Stiles crooks his finger, and Derek growls as he pounces, gripping Stiles’s shoulders and pushing him back until he falls onto the bed. Derek covers him, stretching out over him, pressed cock to cock, and it’s gratifying and thrilling to feel just how hard Stiles is. Derek whines, nuzzles under the collar of the jacket while Stiles clutches at him, holding him close.

“I want you to fuck me, Derek,” Stiles whispers. “I want you inside me. I want you to come inside me—no condom. I’m clean, I swear, and I trust you.”

That twists in Derek’s gut, but he has to be sure. “Stiles—”

Stiles clutches at him. “Don’t argue,” he orders. “Scent mark me. Inside and out. Please.”

Yeah. Fuck, yeah. Derek can do that.

He can’t deny him.

“Let me just get you ready,” Derek agrees. He nudges the jacket wide, exposing Stiles’s chest. There’s a thick spattering of hair right down the center, lighter as it spreads across his pecs. Derek kisses along one collarbone, sucks a mark at the center—stark against his pale skin—then moves to the other side. He wants to cover every inch, to nuzzle every bit of skin. Stiles clings to Derek’s head, holding on as Derek tastes him, teases his nipples to hardness, kisses down the center line of his body.

When Derek captures the tip of Stiles’s dick in his mouth, Stiles thrusts up, pushes Derek’s head down. “Fuck, sorry,” Stiles apologizes, letting go. “Shit. Derek.”

Derek reaches for one hand, puts it back on his head. “It’s okay, Stiles. I want you to get off first.” Then he swallows him down again, taking Stiles as deep into his throat as he can go.

Stiles cries out, thrusts up, and Derek takes it. Everything tastes like musk and leather, rich and thick, leaving Derek hard as a rock and anxious for more. He slides one hand up the inside of Stiles’s thigh, pushes his legs apart. Stiles obliges, knee falling to one side, so Derek can just lightly brush his thumb over Stiles’s ass, pressing against the hole and backing off again.

“Fuck, Derek,” Stiles whispers, voice tight. “Fuck, I’m going to—I’m going to—”

Derek hums around him, tries to tell him it’s okay, to let go. He swallows, and that’s when Stiles shudders, coming in Derek’s mouth in bitter spurts. Derek keeps swallowing as much as he can, lets the rest fall onto Stiles’s belly in a small, sticky puddle. When Derek spreads it over his skin, Stiles laughs softly.

“You can’t resist, can you?”

“You smell good to me,” Derek murmurs. “And in just a few minutes, I’m going to mark you inside and out. You’re going to smell like us, Stiles.”

“Yeah,” Stiles exhales. “That’s perfect, Derek. I want that.”

Derek steps away long enough to get the lube. He bends Stiles’s knees, and Stiles reaches down and grabs his legs, pulling them to open himself wide, exposing himself for Derek. His dick is soft, curled against him, and he still looks wanton. Ready.

Derek spills plenty of lube—over Stiles, on his hands, everywhere that seems useful at the moment. He presses one finger into Stiles, kissing the inside of his thigh as he does so. Stiles sighs, relaxing as Derek pushes in just a bit further, sliding back out before he does it again.

“Feels good,” Stiles murmurs, voice loose and a little slurred.

“You okay?” Derek asks, and Stiles whines.

“M’fine. Nothing wrong here. Everything’s right. Finally.” Stiles hitches his hips, fucking himself on Derek’s finger. “More. Please.”

Derek obliges, pressing in two fingers, then three, faster than he normally would. He listens for the cues—the soft cries, the way Stiles twitches, asking for more. He strokes Stiles’s prostate, but his dick stays limp, and Stiles shakes his head.

“It’s okay, I don’t think I’ve got more than one in me tonight.” Stiles grins then. “And now I’ll have you in me. And your spunk.”

“You make it sound so romantic.”

Stiles waits until Derek is over him before he reaches up with both hands, cradles Derek’s face. His thumbs stroke along Derek’s cheeks, the scent of leather from the jacket surrounding them. “It is romantic,” Stiles tells him, amber eyes serious. “This is perfectly romantic, Derek. It’s our first time. Promise me you’ll never forget it.”

It’s an easy promise to make, echoing his words. “I’ll never forget it,” Derek says. “I never could.” This moment, as he presses into Stiles, surrounded by their mixed scents, feeling the faint warmth of his body gripping him tight—this moment will be emblazoned in his memory forever.

It’s perfect.

Derek rocks forward, filling Stiles inch by inch until he’s seated as far as he can go. He helps Stiles get his legs over Derek’s shoulders, reliving some of the pressure of holding them back himself. When he looks down, Stiles is smiling softly up at him, and for a moment Derek is absolutely lost in the affection in his gaze.

Derek opens his mouth, and Stiles touches his lips. “I know,” Stiles whispers, and Derek closes his eyes.

He doesn’t know how they took this long to get this far, but now that they’re here, Derek can’t imagine being anywhere else. He starts to thrust with long, slow strokes. He opens his eyes, bends down to kiss Stiles, lingering over the taste. It’s slow and easy, and Stiles makes small noises of pleasure on every stroke.

Stiles slides one hand down Derek’s back, palms his ass. “I want to feel you fill me. Warm me up from the inside,” he whispers.

“You’re still cold.” Because he is, skin not yet warm enough under Derek’s touch.

“You’ll fix it,” Stiles says softly. “Please. I want to feel you inside of me. Come for me, Derek.”

The words go straight to Derek’s dick, and he wants so much more from this moment. So much more from Stiles, from the future, from every moment after this. Derek keeps his gaze locked with Stiles, fingers against his throat, feeling his pulse as Derek fucks him. Faster and faster, harder and harder, until his hips stutter as he looses control.

Derek growls, howls as he comes. He thrusts into Stiles, filling him until it leaks out around his softening dick when he pulls out.

Stiles smiles, tugs Derek down and kisses him gently. “That was perfect.”

“Yeah, it was.”

Derek stretches out next to Stiles, pulls the blanket over them both and gathers them close. Stiles is slightly warmer now, from the jacket and the sex, and Derek’s body heat.

“I’ll be okay if I sleep for just a little bit,” Stiles murmurs, voice slow and lazy. “Wake me up in an hour. Make sure I’m not in a concussion coma, okay?”

Derek hesitates, unsure. “Stiles—”

“I’ll be okay.” Stiles pats Derek’s hand. “This was perfect tonight. Don’t forget that.”

“I won’t,” Derek promises again. He lies there, one hand wrapped around Stiles’s middle, feeling the way his chest rises and falls, breath going longer and slower as he eases into sleep.

Derek untangles himself carefully, makes sure Stiles still rests, then grabs his phone from his jeans pocket and walks naked to the kitchen. He presses the number in his contacts, waits until he hears a familiar voice bark a gruff _hello_.

“Sheriff,” Derek says. “I just wanted you to know that Stiles is here and safe, and I’ll bring him home when the weather clears in the morning. He probably should go to the hospital, but the fog’s pretty thick—”

“Derek.” The Sheriff interrupts him and Derek cuts off at the curt tone. “Did you say Stiles is there?”

“He was walking along the road after crashing the Jeep—you might want to cut him some slack about that, it’s pretty bad out.” Derek looks at the window; the fog’s rolled in thicker than before and he can’t even see his own car parked in front of his house.

“Derek. Son.” The Sheriff’s voice is low, serious. There are muffled sounds, then the Sheriff comes back. “Derek. There’s been an accident.”

Derek glances at the kitchen door, at the hall leading back to his room. The bed’s warm, and he wants to be there, cuddling Stiles, rather than standing in the cold kitchen. “I know, that’s why I called you, so you’d know Stiles is safe.”

“The Jeep went off the road,” the Sheriff continues, as if Derek never said anything. “It jumped the guard rail, flipped before rolling down the embankment. If another car hadn’t spotted the crumpled rail, we probably wouldn’t have found him until morning.” There’s a pause before the Sheriff says quietly. “Derek. Stiles didn’t make it. He hit his head on the side window. The trauma was too much. EMTs think he probably died on impact. Didn’t even have the chance to call for help. The Jeep’s a twisted wreck. No one could’ve survive this.” His voice drops lower. “I think it would’ve been too much for someone who wasn’t human, too, Derek. I’m sorry.”

Derek’s heart thumps loudly in his chest, blood echoing in his ears. “No. He’s here. We just—” He’s not going to say that to the Sheriff. To Stiles’s father. “I picked him up on the road. I gave him my jacket. I brought him home because it was closer and safer than bringing him to your house. He’s in my bed right now, sleeping. I know he shouldn’t after a concussion, but I’ll wake him up in an hour. I cleaned the wound. I’m taking care of him.” There’s a desperate note in his voice, because this happened. He knows it happened. His dick’s still sated, still sticky with lube. He smells of Stiles and musk and leather.

It happened.

“Son.” Sorrow fills the Sheriff’s voice. “Stiles is dead. I’m sorry. I can’t—” His voice breaks. “I need to go. Finish with the scene. And I need—”

He needs time to process. Derek knows that feeling, knows what it’s like when your family’s there one second and gone the next. But this isn’t possible. “I—”

“Come by tomorrow.” The Sheriff sounds like he’s already moving on, unshed tears caught on every words. “I’ll take you to the morgue. So you can say goodbye. I’m sure the pack will want to do that.”

The phone goes dead, and Derek stares at it.

It’s not possible, and yet… that was the Sheriff. Why would the Sheriff, of all people, lie about Stiles being dead?

Derek walks slowly down the hall, nudges the door to his room open carefully.

Thin threads of moonlight spill through the fog, scattering light across the bed. The sheets are rumpled, and the room smells like sex and leather. The pillow has the indent as if someone slept there, moments before, and the jacket lies curled on its side.

Derek sinks onto the mattress, gathers the jacket up and buries his face in it. When he inhales, he tastes Stiles on it, the scent still lingering. It’s fresh and bright, thick with musk. New, from tonight.

But Stiles is gone, and there’s no natural way he could have left the house without Derek hearing him.

Derek’s phone rings, Scott’s name flashing on the screen. He knows what Scott’s going to say. Derek mutes the phone and throws it on the nightstand; he doesn’t want to talk to anyone else right now.

He had something here tonight, something unexpected and miraculous.

And when he slides under the covers, cradling the jacket close as if Stiles still wears it, he can pretend that it’s not over yet.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me as [tryslora](http://tryslora.tumblr.com) on Tumblr. If you like my fanfic, you might also enjoy my original web serial at [Welcome to PHU](http://welcometophu.tumblr.com)!


End file.
